


Rainyday Day Dream

by downpourcity



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Poems & Drabbles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 00:29:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10673934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downpourcity/pseuds/downpourcity
Summary: A series of mercymaker drabbles. Ranging from fluff to angst to mentions of smut.[To help give me motivation to write again]





	1. Dawnbreak

A beginning is to start with the opening of curtains, to stare into the outside world, the unknown, and find a story tucked away in the darkest corners and the most obvious of places.

* * *

 

Raindrops collect,  
The wind howls,  
Birds do not dare to utter their calls,  
Wings wrapped around poison,  
Comfort in cold,  
Gold,  
Cobblestone,  
Dusk and Coals,  
The silent stay silent,  
Words rewrite themselves,  
The clock ticks,  
Cigarette ash,  
Pulled apart at the seams,  
Lavender,  
Intimacy,  
Burgundy drapes that hang dark,  
Blood,  
Inescapable screams,  
_These are the rainyday,_  
 _Daydreams._  
  


* * *

These stories follow the intertwined fate of two lovers. A spider who can barely feel and a doctor who can feel too much. They are stuck in a web of their own making. Their roots are so intertwined that the pain can be felt in the deepest of pits, but the happiness can be found all around.   
  
Close your eyes, remove the blindfold, open your heart, breathe in the smell of untouched coffee, and begin to sip.  
  
The tales begin to unfurl like blooming flowers.  
  
Can you feel that?  
  
 **It's your heartbeat.**  
  
 _Remember that well._  
  
  



	2. Smoke

She opened her eyes, breathing in the smoke of the woman who sat out on their balcony. Her limbs froze, remembering.

_It had been over seven years since she had seen her face, heard her voice, felt her lips._

She let out a subtle cough, shivers being sent up her spine. Angela looked over to her right, looking out towards the open set of doors, to see a woman with a spider tattoo snaking down her backside. She wore a skintight suit, a gun standing next to her, leaning against the balcony’s hand railing.

Her arms rose with goosebumps, her lips quivering, her heart beat so faint she was sure she was dying.

She hoped that if she didn’t say a word, the woman wouldn’t vanish into the smoke she produced from her lips.

The tall sniper’s head turned back, her eye visible in the early sunlight. Gold.

Angela stared, broken by this motion, her body shaking in uncomfortable ways. Again, if she moved she would surely break her.

She quelled the fire from the cigarette, setting it in an abandoned ashtray. She turned away from her rifle very elegantly, her hair following her in a sweeping motion.

Angela felt her body instinctively back away, her limbs freezing in place in fear and in awe.

The Frenchwoman paced herself forward, her steps elongated, her heels clicking against the surface of the wooden floor.

The doctor felt her heart beat elevate, her body screaming at her to run or fight or do something, anything but sit there in a frozen mess, poisoned by a spider.

She crouched down before her, looking up at her with a smile on her lips and chill in her eyes, her hand reaching forward to grab the blonde’s chin, moving it up to gaze upon it, her hands colder than ice.

_“Angela, I remember.”_


	3. Charcoal

It was odd walking in public again.

The people gawking at her like she was a circus performance in high heels reminded her of that.

Widowmaker she called herself and liked to be referred to, but in public?  
  
She was stuck with a name that was like a pair of ill-fitting pants.

**_Amélie._ **

She would go to this contemporary coffee shop in the richest part of town to get a cup of black coffee that she would throw away hours later. Every time they asked her name, and she’d give it to them like she were in the middle of a funeral.

They’d write it on the cup in big, bold, and sloppy handwriting. It would tend to make her appetite for this drink to wane.

Then after that horrific series of awkward events, the woman who was already strange as it was, would walk to a park and sit down to draw. Sometimes she was lucky enough to be left alone to draw the same picture. Yes, the same picture.

It was always of this woman, with her face just so. Her eyes were soft blue, yet she felt she could never get it right. Something was always off about her. Funnily enough, the sniper had no idea who in the world she drew, she just knew she was mesmerized by it.

Each time she would grow frustrated, throwing the drawing away with the cup of coffee, with her old name on it. Nothing ever seemed to satisfy her anymore when it came to this mundane ritual. Sombra had told her that this ritual would be the only way for her to integrate back into what she referred to as the “Real World.”

Today was like any other day, she sat on the bench nearest the pond, a tree overhanging her and the lightest breeze. She loved the breeze. It continued to remind her that she was free.

She set out her paper, her charcoals and her smudge stick, and began to lightly sketch the curves of the face again. This time she closed her eyes, feeling every single curve and edge and smooth bit. It was almost as if the picture itself was the woman and she felt her face to understand it like a blind person would.

To understand it at a deeper place, a place that only certain people could go. Maybe then she would achieve the face that she had stuck in her mind for so very long. The face of a woman she didn’t know.

Before long, a droplet of rain hit the paper, smearing the charcoal. She disgustedly recoiled, quickly smashing her book of paper together, hoping that that would end the wreckage of her piece.

She grabbed her papers and went walking away as quickly as possible, but stopped dead at the sound of a voice.

“Miss! You left your---“The pause was what hurt her insides.  
  
The voice was so familiar it made her chest ache. She turned her head, her hues catching the sun that peaked through the surrounding clouds. Her skirt blew in the wind, her hair following, her eyes breaking through the gloom of her dark locks.

Blue eyes, blonde hair, curved face, sweet lips.

**_The woman._ **

 

 


End file.
